Impassive short chords repetition collects acid clouds of disquiet and frustration. You stare inward, concentrate on chords' black spiral which digs in pulsing tissues of memory extracting and reeling up melodies of your colourful remembrances. The black spiral exacerbates concentration and self-isolation and occasionally helps to reach various states from ecstatic burst to catatonic gazing into the void. But soon disquiet and frustration return with the snatch of sullen blues and eventually corrode it with distorted guitar screams bringing it to mental derangement.
Thick and rough chords lay shredded just like wisps of fog in the sky wrapped up by continuous grey overcast of blurry drones. The sky seems sometimes flat, sometimes deep. Like in a nightmare, it falls upon little man stretching on the ground. Or does the man fall through that grey layer of drones? Feeling of distress keeps him depressed. It overwhelms with depleting waves, wrings his entrails with hard loops of discolored guitar chords. With ridiculously waving hands, little man continues his fall upward in the bleak inhomogeneous thick layer of despair. The little man tries to hide in his subconsciousness, to tear up the whirls of distress which are pulling him upwards. Blots of sonorous chords attempt to penetrate fading nothingness but drown in waves of resonant drones while inanimate sonic wind finally disperses pale blurs of little man's remembrances with vibrating metal strings.